


Will You Still Love Me, Tomorrow?

by tilla123



Series: Wedding Bell Blues [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:11:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18614746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilla123/pseuds/tilla123
Summary: Standard disclaimers apply. The boys still aren’t mine and hope is fading fast. They belong to the folks at Rysher and Mr. Panzer and Mr. Davis, for a while at least. We’ll see what happens at the end of the season. If they become free agents, I’m putting in a bid. For now, I’m merely borrowing them and will return them unharmed when I’m through. Sorry, guys, there is still no explicit sex to be found - just some very mild m/m implications and a little angst. Actually, folks, there is no sex at all in this one. I promise I will get it right eventually, though.Many thanks are offered up on the altar of proper English grammar and coherency to my one remaining beta, Olympia. I’ve either bored or scared the rest of them off. Without her this story would make even less sense than it does.





	Will You Still Love Me, Tomorrow?

Madame de Lancie paced about the apartment sighing heavily and wringing her hands. Ah, le pauvre petit jeune fil. She sighed again. Nothing more at least had disappeared from his domicile, but she could not say the same for Adam.  
She was sure Monsieur Dawson would hear from the boy from time to time and – God willing – he would keep her informed of the child’s whereabouts. She, too, could be persuasive and the promise of a lifetime supply of one of her family’s finest vintages had loosened the tongue of Monsieur Dawson’s partner most agreeably.  
She might have been more relieved when Michel called to say that he and Robert were driving Adam to the barge to ‘pick up the rest of his things’, had there been any hope her young tenant would at least reconsider his decision to leave Paris entirely. This did not seem likely, however, given the circumstances.  
Of course, she understood how the events of the trial and his disappointment in the barbarous Scot might make him wish to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of his humiliation. Of course, she understood how a boy as sensitive as Adam might, under the circumstances, believe he had no future here and wish to start anew in a place where he was unknown. As though anyone could blame him for what had occurred.  
She had been so very relieved to hear of Adam’s impending escape, she had not even thought how she might feel when he was gone. Imagine, then, how horrified she was when she heard how the Scot had returned to the barge unannounced and – according to the witnesses who had telephoned the police who telephoned her – forced Adam below the decks.  
Thank God and the holy saints Michel and Robert had been nearby! Though why the two of them had not stayed with Adam to see him safely packed and away was almost beyond her comprehension. Michel had said something about Adam ‘wishing to be alone with his grief’ and so he and his partner had removed themselves to the Hotel des Lionnes to await his summons.  
Thank God and the saints as well, it had been those two who were dispatched to the scene. At least they understood the situation and Le Petit’s honor would in no way be compromised.  
She could almost imagine poor Adam’s horror and shock when his brutish ex-lover had arrived so unexpectedly. No doubt his embarrassment at the compromising position in which he had found himself had played some part in his decision to leave the city, if not the country entire. Michel had said Adam seemed to be in some shock when they had arrived. They had discovered Adam on his knees, the Scot half-naked before him, the man’s strong hands clutching Adam’s dark head. She sighed again.  
Her nephew and his partner had arrived in what was – according to Michel – the ‘nick of time’ to affect a rescue. Poor Adam, she thought sadly. The armory they had discovered in the Scot’s possession bore mute testimony to the method the man had employed to persuade the boy to do his bidding.  
The Scotsman had been allowed to dress himself before they led him – protesting vehemently – away. Adam, too, had dressed hurriedly and rushed out after them attempting vainly to dissuade the two from their duty.

Methos counted to ten and smiled pleasantly at the officer behind the desk. He would not lose his temper. How dare they arrest the Highlander! MacLeod had a permit for God’s sake. The man was an antique dealer after all and every one of those weapons was a priceless antique. Hell, some of them were older than Mac was. Come to think of it, most of them were older than Mac was. At least one of them was damn near as old as he was.  
It made it so much easier – not to mention safer – then to just let the police continue to believe the swords, knives and pistols they had confiscated belonged to Mac rather than young Dr. Pierson. It seemed more natural, somehow, for a dealer in antiques to be in possession of such things. What earthly reason could a recent doctoral candidate in Ancient Mesopotamian Studies have for owning a cache of implements generally used for a little minor social restructuring?  
Of course, it was going to be a little difficult trying to explain where MacLeod might have purchased them – especially since there were no receipts. But, they hadn’t had such things in Methos’ younger days and the men he’d gotten the knives and pistols from hadn’t been in any condition to write one out in any case. Explaining how Mac might have gotten them into the country without passing through customs was going to be a bit sticky, too. But Mac was good at explaining; he’d come up with something. Explaining why they were on the barge instead of under lock-and-key at the gallery might be a bit easier. Perhaps now was a good time to remind MacLeod of Aristotle’s advice – ‘start small and build’. Methos was all out of other ideas.  
He smiled again and the young woman smiled back. "Monsieur MacLeod’s bail?" he asked again – for perhaps the third, or was it the fourth, time?  
She shook her head, blonde curls waving in the gentle breeze she created. "Non, Monsieur Docteur Pierson. Je regret, but monsieur le justice is unavailable and will not return from his honeymoon until the first or perhaps the middle of next week." She leaned forward and lay a gentle hand on the handsome young doctor’s arm. "It is he who must say what bail will be set, monsieur. It is a most serious offense with which Monsieur MacLeod is charged." It was, too. "For a man of his standing in the community to coerce a young man such as yourself to provide . . ."  
Ah, she could not continue. She dropped her eyes and blushed furiously.  
Methos cleared his throat. "It wasn’t exactly coerced," he began. "That is, you see, I mean . . ."  
He cleared his throat again. Damn, this was going to be difficult.  
"But the witnesses, monsieur? They saw him force you below the decks. They said you appeared uneasy and he was angry. They feared some harm might come to you and so called for the police." She paused for breath and Methos cut in quickly.  
"Yes, I understand all that, but . . ."  
"Monsieur MacLeod is not a man to treat lightly, monsieur. He is trained in the martial arts and in the use of weapons. He can be a most dangerous man. People lose their heads when he is about."  
Yes, well I certainly seem to have. The old man nearly groaned out loud. "Yes, well, he thought I was trying to burgle the barge." He chuckled and smiled again – a little embarrassed at the memory.  
The young woman nodded. "But of course. And because he thinks you are ‘burgling’ his domicile he orders you at knife-point to disrobe? And what did he think you were trying to remove from his home, monsieur? Drugs or maybe something equally valuable and perhaps equally illegal?"  
Methos frowned. "His television?" He coughed, noting the look of disbelief on her face. "I told him I had his television and stereo out in the van. I was a little angry and . . ."  
Oh, hell. Why was he explaining to her? He owed no one an explanation for his behavior, least of all the police. He groaned again. Best just shut up now or Mac would be in deeper than he could dig his way out.  
He hoped they’d not keep his lover locked up too much longer, but he was damned if he’d admit to being the owner of all that weaponry. It was bad enough the entire Watcher organization – thank you, Mr. Dawson – knew that ex-Watcher Adam Pierson had been living with the Highlander – who just happened to be one of the best-known Immortals on the face of the planet. If they ever twigged to the fact that ex-Watcher Pierson was actually an Immortal too, his life wouldn’t be worth spit.  
Oh, he doubted they’d actually try to kill him, but they could certainly make his life difficult – if not impossible. They’d have a Watcher on him faster than he could blink and there was no where he could go – thanks to that computer system he and Don had set up – where they wouldn’t be able to track him.  
"May I at least see him, Madamoiselle . ."  
He peered at the nameplate on the desk. "Madamoiselle D’Arcy?"  
She shook her head. "Non, Monsieur Pierson. I am sorry, but perhaps tomorrow. For the moment there are papers yet to process and he has been difficult. It would be best to wait."  
He ground his teeth, cursing all bureaucrats and their minions, then nodded politely and stomped out the door. He would wait because it seemed he must, but he certainly didn’t have to like it. MacLeod wasn’t going to like it either.

Madame de Lancie moaned softly and wrung her hands some more. The poor, poor child, she thought. Where would he go? What would he do – alone and friendless in the cold cruel world?  
She had hoped the Scottish barbarian would be locked away for as long as needed for Adam to come to his senses. Unfortunately, Adam had presented himself before the court the very next day and attempted to post the Scot’s bail. Not only that, but he had refused once again to press charges. The child was quite obviously demented or – as Michel was fond of saying – ‘crazy in love’. Her nephew watched much too much American television.  
Thank God, Michel’s father was away and so no bail could be posted, although she was quite sure Monsieur le justice LaCroix would never allow bail in any case when the Scot was so obviously a dangerous terrorist. Interpol, Scotland Yard, and perhaps even the FBI or CIA and KGB, would have information on him – information she might use to convince her young friend of the seriousness of his plight. She had connections, too, with the Yard. Not so close perhaps as with the constabulary here in Paris, but the few she did have were eminently capable, eminently thorough and quite ruthless in their pursuit of truth and justice - of a sort.

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was sitting on the edge of his narrow and very uncomfortable cot when the guard brought Methos into the corridor.  
"Mac?"  
"Adam," the Highlander replied without looking up. He waved a hand at the small and dingy cell. "Beginning to feel a bit like home," he said with a wry chuckle. "Have you straightened it out yet? Can we go home now?"  
Methos coughed. "Not exactly, Mac." He stepped into the cell and sat down beside his friend.  
MacLeod lifted his head and gazed at him steadily. "Not exactly, Adam? What d’ye mean ‘not exactly?"  
The old man coughed again. "I mean, it’s not exactly straightened out – yet." He edged away from the Highlander ever so slightly. "The good justice is away on his honeymoon and won’t be back until mid-week next."  
"Mid-week?" Mac repeated blankly. "Mid-week next? That’s four or five days away for God’s sake!" He sprang up and began to pace while Methos watched warily. "Four – maybe five – days without . .without . ." He glared at his friend. "You are trying to drive me mad aren’t you? You can’t take my head in a fair fight so you think you’ll drive me insane and hope I’ll do it for you." He shook his head and Methos stared in disbelief. "Well, if that’s the game you’re playing, it’s not going to work." He stopped pacing and ranting and stood, towering over his friend. "And that woman!" Methos flinched. "She’s in league with you, isn’t she? It’s all been a part of the plot hasn’t it?"  
"MacLeod," Methos urged, catching the Highlander’s hands in his own. "MacLeod, calm down. There is no plot and no one is trying to drive you anywhere!" And if we were, you’d be half there already, he thought. But he was not going to tell Mac that. He pursed his lips and squinted up at the other man. "And what the hell makes you think I couldn’t take you in a fair fight? I may have been out of practice once, but I’m sharp enough now."  
MacLeod nodded. "Oh, yeah. You’re sharp enough all right." He collapsed onto the cot with his head in his hands. "I’m sorry, Adam. I just hate this. I hate being locked up in here when . . ."  
"When I’m free to date. I know. We’ve had this conversation before I believe." Methos started up, but the Scot gripped his arm.  
"That is not what I said," Duncan insisted clutching at the limb for all he was worth. "I hate being locked up in here when I didn’t do anything." He stared up at his friend. "I didn’t do anything, Adam. Can ye no tell them that? Those damned weapons aren’t mine. They can’t keep me here like this for something I didn’t do."  
Methos looked at him steadily. "Oh, no? Happens every day, MacLeod. What makes you think it can’t happen to you?" Oh, no you don’t. I am not confessing to anything, MacLeod. The look on Mac’s face did not bode well for that line of thought though. "MacLeod! I can’t tell them that. They’d never believe it."  
"Why not?" the Highlander queried, puzzled. "It’s the truth isn’t it?"  
"What makes you think I’d tell them the truth? Truth is relative, Mac," Methos said earnestly. "One man’s truth is another man’s folly or whatever." He clasped one strong bronzed hand in his own more slender ones. "Please, Mac. Try to understand. How could someone like Adam Pierson possibly explain being the owner of all those weapons? I’m a librarian, for heaven’s sake! You, Mac, you’re an antiques dealer with a permit to own weapons. It’s part of your livelihood. They understand a man has to make a living."  
Mac nodded. "Of course," he said glumly and Methos breathed a sigh of relief. "And I’m sure they also understand a man has to defend his property – from any and all comers."  
"What do you mean, MacLeod," the old man asked, letting go the other’s hand and glancing up warily.  
"What were you doing on the barge, Adam?"  
"Getting my things," Methos replied uncertainly. "Why do you ask?"  
"Your things?" The old man nodded and Mac rested one hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure that’s all you were doing?"  
Methos nodded again and pulled away. "Getting my things MacLeod and if you’d just let it be, you wouldn’t be here now, would you? But no, you had to come back and make a scene, shove me downstairs and . . and . . " He stopped talking long enough to draw a harsh breath. "If I were you, I’d start thinking of a really good reason why you had all that weaponry lying about on the bed while we were doing whatever it is we were doing, though. You’ve only got four days before Justice LaCroix comes back and I imagine he’s going to want the whole story – whatever it is."  
MacLeod smiled – not a pretty sight – then dropped down on the cot beside his friend. "Oh, I’ve got an explanation, Adam. Want to hear it?" The other man nodded. The Highlander opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Whatever it was we were doing? He looked sharply at friend. "What do you mean ‘Whatever it was we were doing’? Surely you’ve not forgotten!"  
"Forgotten, Mac?" Methos asked innocently. "Haven’t you heard? I was ‘too much shocked’ to have any idea what was going on." He paused looking at his friend sitting open-mouthed beside him on the cot. "I tried to tell them, Mac. Honest. But they wouldn’t listen. Hell, I had all I could do to keep them from taking me to hospital to look at those bruises." He prodded his friend gently. "Now wouldn’t that have been something to explain? Excuse me, Monsieur Pierson," he drawled in imitation of the lawyer at Mac’s earlier trial. "How is it that you heal so very quickly from such an assault?" He switched almost immediately to Pierson mode, ducking his head shyly. "I’ve always been a quick healer, monsieur. Something in the genes, I think."  
The Highlander growled low in his throat. His fingers fairly itched to snug themselves around that pale slim neck and squeeze the life out of it. He could hear Methos wheezing and choking, the breath rattling in his lungs as he died, slowly. Then, when he came back, Mac could do it again and again and again and . . He shook his head. Dear God, I'm becoming as homicidal as Methos in his Horseman days. Instead he nodded again and smiled. "Of course, Adam," he said, nodding and smiling and putting Methos very much in mind of a fellow he’d once known who understood not a word of any of the several dozen languages Methos spoke, but smiled and nodded in just such a way no matter what was said. "Now, do you want to hear this or not?"  
"Fine, MacLeod. Let’s see what you’ve come up with shall we?" Not, not, not, not. He did not like the way the Highlander was looking at him. He did not like the way the man was nodding. He did so not want to hear this and as soon as this interview was over he was catching the first plane out of here and heading for some place warm and sunny and as far away from Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod as he could get.  
Mac nodded again and Methos held off screaming only by biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, letting the sharp coppery taste of blood wash through and over him. "Get on with it, MacLeod. It’s obviously going to need some work, so the sooner you show me what you’ve got, the sooner I can fix it."  
Mac looked hurt. "What makes you think it’s going to need fixing, Adam?"  
Methos sighed. "Because, Highlander, you aren’t capable of the level of finesse required to properly pull this off. You haven’t the instincts for it."  
"I haven’t the instincts for it? And you do?"  
Methos nodded. "Of course, MacLeod. How else do you think I’ve survived as long as I have? I’m a master of deception." He grinned suddenly. "Weren’t you listening to Kronos in Bordeaux? You really should learn to listen to your elders, Mac. They could teach you so much if you’d only stop cutting their heads off and let them."  
The Highlander groaned and leaned his head in his hands. "All right. A rough sketch and you tell me if it flies. If not, perhaps I’ll leave it to you to come up with something more believable than the truth."  
"The truth," Methos said in tones of the utmost scorn. "Why would you tell the truth?"  
"Because it’s all I can think of at the moment," Mac replied, leaning back on the cot. "Now be quiet and let me think. I come home from Le Blues Bar because someone of my kind neighbors has noticed a van, which does not belong to me, parked on the quay. I come home and what do I find but my ex-lover . . ."  
"We’d been living together, MacLeod. I would think the police might realize I had a certain right to be there."  
"But you’d left in a huff and been gone for weeks. For all I knew you weren’t coming back – ever."  
"Two weeks, Mac. I’m gone a lousy two weeks and you assume I’m never coming back?"  
"Were you?" Mac asked and Methos flushed to the roots of his hair.  
"No," he said wearily. "I wasn’t."  
"I thought not," MacLeod said softly. "Anyway, I come home and what do I find but my ex-lover who tells me he’s leaving . . ."  
"Which should have been obvious even to you given the circumstances," Methos cut in and Mac shushed him with a kiss.  
"Be quiet, Adam. I’m on a roll here." He bit at his lip. "Now, where was I?"  
"I’m leaving you, Mac," Methos supplied helpfully.  
"Oh, yeah. Thanks." He chewed on a nail for a moment, then began again. "You tell me you’re leaving and taking a good bit of my personal property with you as payment for services rendered." He glanced up at the man beside him. "Being so suddenly confronted with the truth of your larcenous and nefarious nature, what was I supposed to do, just let you go?"  
Methos frowned. This was not good. "I never said any such thing, MacLeod. You make me sound like a bloody whore."  
MacLeod squinted, thinking hard. "Are you sure you didn’t say just that, Adam? I could have sworn you did or words to that affect anyway. ‘Might as well get something for all the effort I’ve put into the last few weeks.’ I believe that’s what you said, but I’d have to check the tape to be sure."  
"Tape?" Methos asked weakly and the Highlander nodded. "You never did, Mac. I would have noticed."  
"Of course I did, Adam," Mac insisted very obviously pleased with himself. "I thought I’d need proof so I taped our little conversation and have every intention of releasing it to the press – if I have to." He grinned triumphantly at the stunned look on his friend’s face.  
"MacLeod," Methos stammered. "MacLeod, I’m impressed."  
"You like it then?" The Highlander beamed.  
Methos leaned forward and patted his friend on the shoulder. "I’ll think of something, Mac. Never fear."

"Amanda," Methos warned.  
The pixie-faced thief shook her head. "No, Methos. How many times do I have to tell you? Mac’s the one who told me to tell your landlady he was married. Is it my fault she thinks he’s a philandering Philistine who shouldn’t be allowed near her precious baby boy?"  
"I hardly think he meant you to tell her he’d been married three or four times in the last ten years, Amanda."  
"That was seven years, Methos."  
"Whatever. And he certainly never asked you to tell her about all his ‘conquests’ in between marriages." Damn, the girl was impossible! He sighed and flopped into a chair. "We’re desperate, Amanda."  
"No! I am not about to confess my sins to your crazy landlady." She picked up her coat and turned toward the door, then remembered this was her apartment. "Are you leaving?"  
Methos shook his head. "Nope. I can’t go back to my apartment and the barge is definitely off-limits under the circumstances and Madame de Lancie knows where Joe lives, so it looks like you’re stuck with me." He glanced up at her coyly and batted his lashes. "For a while at least."  
Amanda growled and slithered back to her chair. "And just how long do you think you’ll be staying, Methos?"  
He smiled wickedly and leaned over to pat her hand. "Oh, not long. Just until Mac gets out."

"Yes, Madame. I’m fine, Madame. No, Madame not hurt or injured in the least." He looked up and shook his head as Joe Dawson entered the room. "Oui, Madame. I do have one small favor to ask, if you would?" He tossed another pair of socks into his valise. "Yes, would you hold the apartment just until I can get settled and send for my things? The fish and the plants, well, I’d appreciate it a great deal if you’d keep them . . oh, well perhaps Michel and Robert would . . I see." He sighed gustily and sat down on the couch. "Very well. Perhaps I can post an ad and . . ."  
His face brightened while he folded a pair of black jeans and set them neatly beside the socks and shirts already waiting patiently in his bag. "Ah, merci beaucoup, Madame! Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you!" He stood up and fetched more of his laundry from the big yellow basket. "Yes, of course I’ll keep in touch. You are an angel! Thank you. Bye." He sat down again and resumed his folding and packing.  
"What are you doing, Methos?" Joe’s voice was gruff and the Oldest Immortal looked up, a little concerned.  
"Packing, Joe. What does it look like?" Now was not the time for the Watcher to lose his sense of perspective and go all fuzzy-witted. Joe Dawson needed to keep his wits about him, if Methos was to keep his head.  
"What for? I thought you were staying with Amanda until Mac gets out and then you and he . . ."  
"Yeah, well, I figure to catch the next stage out of Dodge when Mac gets out, Joe. We’re not exactly Romeo and Juliet or Tristan and Isolde right now." He frowned slightly. "Hell, we’re not even Hercules and Iolaus right now and I like my head right where it is, thanks."  
"You’re running, Methos?"  
The Old Man nodded. "Yep."  
"But why?"  
Methos stood up, sighed and strolled over to his friend. "Look Joe," he said gently, laying a comforting hand on the Watcher’s shoulder. "I told you, I like my head where it is and Mac and I . . "  
"Mac and you what? What about Mac and you?" Joe was becoming increasingly agitated and Methos sighed again.  
"Let’s just say it’s not going to work, Joe, and leave it at that. MacLeod doesn’t trust me; hasn’t really since he found out about Kronos." He grinned. "And I’m not sure I trust him exactly either. The boy is remarkably devious for one who’s supposedly so ‘up-and-up’ and straight-and-narrow-minded."  
Dawson groaned. "He loves you, Methos."  
"Of course he does, Joe. That’s why he had to search me on board that damned boat of his."  
"He loves, you Methos." Joe Dawson paused a moment and frowned. "Wait a minute. Searching you?" That wasn’t quite what he’d heard was going on, but who was he to argue with one of the participants. "Why was he searching you, Methos?"  
Methos sighed and sat down. "He thought I was looting the barge, Joe."  
"Looting the barge? Why would he think you were looting the barge?" This was making even less sense than the story Mac had told him. "And what in God’s name did he think you were taking?"  
"His television and stereo, I think," the old man said calmly. "And I imagine seeing the van parked out on the quay might have had something to do with it." He glanced up at the Watcher and bit his lip.  
"And?" Joe pressed.  
"And perhaps because I told him I was?"  
Dawson groaned. "I can’t believe you’d do such a thing! He loves you!"  
Methos snorted. "Right. And how’s this for a quote? ‘I just want what’s mine.’ Ranks right up there with ‘What light through yonder window breaks’ or ‘How do I love thee, let me count the ways’ doesn’t it? Oh, yes, Joe, just the sort of words guaranteed to make you go all warm and fuzzy inside." He glared up at the Watcher. "Better scripts have been written by five-year-olds."  
"Methos," Joe said slowly. "Did it ever occur to you that it might be you he was talking about?"  
The other man stared. "No, it didn’t, Joe, and frankly I don’t think it occurred to MacLeod either. ‘I just want what’s mine?’ As though I were a bloody stick of furniture?"  
Dawson sighed again. "He loves you, Methos."  
"You said that already, Joe. You’re starting to repeat yourself – not a good sign my friend." He tossed the last of his laundry into the bag and zipped it up. "Well," he said picking up the bag and holding out his hand. "I’m outta here. I don’t expect I’ll be sending you my forwarding address, Joe, so let’s just say it’s been fun and thanks for the beer, all right?" Damn, I'm going to miss all that free beer, nearly as much as playing chess with MacLeod and listening to Joe’s music. Why the hell does it have to be me leaving? Why can’t Mac just up and disappear?  
"Why, Methos?"  
The old man stared. "Good God, Joe! Haven’t you been listening? When MacLeod gets out, I want to be as far away as I can get. This whole incident was at least partially my fault and . . .Why are you looking at me like that?"  
Dawson shook his head. "Let me get a calendar, Methos. Or, perhaps you could get one for me while I sit down."  
Methos frowned. "What’s the problem, Joe?" he asked brusquely, then his eyes widened as a little light bulb went off in his head. "Oh, come on! MacLeod’s the one who can’t admit he made a mistake, Joe. I’ve admitted to making plenty of ‘em."  
"Of course you have."  
"I have, Joe." He was coming perilously close to whining. "I know I’ve made mistakes. I’ve made several just since meeting MacLeod." He sat down and started ticking off mistakes on his fingers. "One, I let him know I was Methos. Even Byron didn’t know I was Methos and he was my student!  
"Two, I keep trying to give him advice which he neither wants nor listens to and which half the time ends up with me being the one on the receiving end of one of his lectures.  
"Three, I disappear, which is very smart on my part, but I keep returning to the scene of the crime, poking my very substantial nose into his business to pull him out of a jam."  
"You’ve got a lovely nose, Methos."  
The other man glared. "Kind of you to say so, Joseph, thank you. Alexa thought so, too." He stared at his shoes. "Really, Joe, what kind of idiot is it who keeps trying to rescue a man who so very obviously doesn’t need rescue?" He sighed again. "And who not only doesn’t thank you for it, but threatens to chop off your head for trying."  
Joe gazed down at his friend. "I don’t know, Methos. What kind of idiot is it?"  
"My kind. I can’t keep making mistakes like this, Joe. Someday, one of them will get me killed and I don’t think I could live with myself if that happened."

"Methos," Amanda sputtered, dropping the size 12 hiking boots onto the floor. "I’ve got company coming. Could you disappear? Please?"  
Her house-guest propped his feet once more on the coffee table’s bright surface, settled himself more firmly into the cushions of the sofa and cocked an eyebrow quizzically toward the window. "You expect me to go out – in that?" Rain poured down and the wind skipped even the soggiest leaves along the flooded streets.  
"Methos," she begged, slipping into the cushions beside him and gazing deeply into those hazel orbs. "Pretty please? The ladies wouldn’t understand."  
"Really," the old man said, rather too brightly. "Ladies? And what wouldn’t they understand?" He bent over and untied his boots, slipping them off and dropping them onto the floor. He eased his feet off the chrome and glass of the table and drew them up under him, then went back to the crossword puzzle he was working.  
"Methos," Amanda snarled, grabbing one long-fingered hand in hers and snatching away the pencil. "Will you please take a hike? This is very important to me."  
"As MacLeod’s freedom is to me," the Oldest of them said, slipping his sweater off over his head and flinging it into a nearby chair. "So, what are we going to do about it?" He gazed evenly at the dark-haired enchantress sitting beside him. He unbuttoned the top buttons of his gray henley and stood up, striding quickly toward the bathroom. "I think I’ll take a quick shower, Amanda," he said easily as he dropped his jeans onto the carpet by the door. "Wouldn’t do to greet your guests smelling like a pig, now would it?"  
"Methos!" Damn it, she would not cry. He was not going to make her cry, but her lip trembled just a little all the same as he peeked out from behind the bathroom door.  
"Oh, all right! I’ll hide in the bedroom if it will make you feel any better."  
She smiled wistfully. "Thank you, sweetie," she murmured, giving him a swift kiss. "You’re a doll!"  
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Just don’t let MacLeod hear you talking like that or we may both lose our heads."

"I hate seeing you like this, Mac."  
The Highlander glanced up from his position on the cot. "So do I, Joe," he said a little more crossly than he’d intended. The other man looked away. "Sorry, Joe. That just sort of slipped out."  
Dawson nodded. "’sokay, Mac. How long they keeping you for?"  
The Highlander shrugged – not easy from a supine position, but he managed. "No idea. Adam is working on something, but he’s having a bit of difficulty working out the logistics."  
"Mac," Joe began, then paused. Perhaps now was not the time to tell MacLeod the Oldest Immortal was planning to take a powder as soon as his lover was sprung. Mac didn’t need any more stress piled on top of what he was already suffering.  
"What is it, Joe?" MacLeod heaved himself up onto his elbows and stared at the Watcher. "Joe? Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You wanna talk about it?"  
Damn Mac for being so understanding! Well, he wouldn’t be once he heard what was up with Methos that was sure. Dawson shook his head. "Nothing Mac. Just thinking out loud. What do you think is taking Adam so long to get here?"  
"I don’t know," the Highlander replied looking at Joe’s watch. "He should’ve been here long before this." He glanced up at Joe. "You don’t think something’s happened to him do you?"  
"Maybe he’s not coming, Mac," Joe said, heaving himself to his feet and leaning on his cane.  
Mac stared in disbelief. "Not coming, Joe? Why wouldn’t he be coming? He promised." The Highlander scowled. "He’d not break a promise, would he, do ye think?" He shook his head. "No, Joe. He’ll be here."

"Amanda, darling," Methos called opening the door to the bedroom and stepping out into the brightly lit living-dining area. "Have you seen my socks?" Seven pairs of bespectacled eyes stared up in shock from their notebooks; seven ruby-red or luscious peach mouths dropped open at the sight of a tallish, slender, dark-haired, blue-silk-boxer-clad young man framed by the half-light behind the bedroom door. Thirty-five suddenly nerveless fingers dropped seven Rolling Writer pens onto the chrome and glass finish of Amanda’s coffee table with a definite clatter. The other thirty-five fingers made feeble attempts to silence the assorted gasps and murmurs of amazed appreciation.  
"Oh, dear," he apologized, glancing around the gathering. "Did you have company?" He chuckled wryly. "So sorry, ladies, but I seem to have forgotten my shoes." He strode easily into the midst of all that feminine flesh, reaching for the boots under the coffee table. "I’ll be out of your way in just a minute," he murmured as he brushed one nylon-clad leg. "So sorry." The recipient of his attention tittered nervously.  
"I am going to kill you, Adam," Amanda hissed, slapping him in the chest with the other boot.  
He shook his head. "Tut, tut, tut. Threats in front of all these witnesses? Really my dear, I gave you a bit more credit than that." He leaned over and brushed her ear with his lips. "And think what a Quickening would do the furniture." He chuckled again, sliding gently against yet another pair of knees, and brushing a shoulder or two as seven pairs of eyes followed his long-legged stroll back to the bedroom.  
"Not nearly as much as your feet have done already," she hissed back, but he gave no indication he had heard as the door closed behind him.

"Ah, Madame MacLeod!" Madame de Lancie swung open the door and stepped aside, a wide smile on her round little face. How very fortuitous that the demon Scot’s ex-wife should make an appearance now, when it had seemed all was lost. "How very good to see you again. Please to come in, Madame."  
"Amanda, please," the Immortal pickpocket, thief, and swindler cooed, peeking around the apartment. "I can only stay for just a tiny minute, though. I just hoped you could give Mac a message for me?" Damn, Methos anyway for refusing to come along. Five thousand years practice at twisting the truth and he couldn’t handle one little old lady but had to leave it to me. ‘She’ll know I set it up, if we go together ‘Manda. I can’t let her know I’m involved or she’ll see right through it.’ Yeah, right. Like she isn’t going to see through this anyway?  
"A message, Madame Amanda? What sort of message?" How much more of the Scot’s depraved past would she be privy to? How much more could this child in front of her have borne in the years she had been married to the fiend? And why was she coming to her to leave him a message?  
Amanda smiled slightly. "Yes, please. I know he’s fond of you for bringing Adam and he together." Madame gasped. "You did, you know. And he’s really terribly grateful. But I was by the barge yesterday to drop off a few more items for the gallery and see if he’d found a buyer yet for the pistols I left the other day and there was no one there." She cocked her head and bit at her lip. "That’s not like Mac, to just go off and leave the barge unattended like that."  
"Pistols?" Madame de Lancie asked weakly.  
"Oh, yes. I pick things up for him frequently, Madame. He doesn’t seem to travel as much as he did and with the alimony he’s paying me I can certainly afford to see more of the world than I ever thought I would." She grinned slyly. "So, picking up antique jewelry and old weapons is the least I can do for him."  
"You do this for a man who left you for my young tenant? You must be a very forgiving woman, Amanda."  
"Left me? Oh, no Madame! Mac didn’t leave me. I left him." She giggled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "He was so busy all the time with that silly job of his and well, a girl’s got to entertain herself somehow, don’t you agree?" Madame nodded mutely and Amanda smiled and smoothed her hair. "So, I shopped ‘til I dropped – literally. I must have run up thousands of dollars on his charge cards while we were together and the dear man never said a word." She giggled again and leaned back against the cushions. "I suppose the masseuse and the hair-stylist, the tennis coach and the ski instructor were the last straws though." She smiled a little sadly and dabbed at her eyes. "That’s when he said I’d have to start behaving myself." She looked up at the older woman. "And just when I’d been having so much fun, too. That was really very harsh of him, don’t you think?" She waited for just a moment, then took out a file and commenced buffing her nails. "Anyway, I told him then that if he couldn’t take the time to pay attention to me, I certainly wasn’t going to give up the men who could."  
"You had affairs?" the old woman gasped. "But I thought it was Monsieur MacLeod who had . . ."  
"Had what?" Amanda asked, puzzled. "Mac? Have affairs?" She laughed brightly. "Oh, my no! Not Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He’s much too prim and proper for that!"  
"But did you not say he had three young men like mon petit as lovers in the four years you were wed? And you were his third wife in seven, yes?" Oh, mon Dieu! How could I have been so mistaken?  
Amanda’s laughter filled the living space. "Oh, my! I’m sorry, Madame de Lancie, but that’s just too funny for words." The tears were rolling down her cheeks and she dabbed at her eyes again. "Mac having three young lovers in four years! Madame, with that job he had he didn’t even have time for me, let alone anyone else."  
"You are sure of this? He was not merely pretending to work and perhaps . ."  
Amanda shook her head. "I’d have known, Madame. A woman knows these things." Her eyes narrowed. "Besides, I did have him followed for a while, but everything was completely legitimate – business trips were business trips and there was no hanky-panky on the side at all. Made me feel almost guilty." She smiled again. "No, Madame. Mac didn’t have any affairs – he was too involved with his work."  
"But the three wives in seven years?"  
"I think you misunderstood just a little," Amanda said cheerily, holding her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "I had seven lovers in three years." She sighed. "I do miss most of them, too. That masseuse really knew how to get the kinks out."

"I’m free," MacLeod repeated, looking from Justice LaCroix to the two young men standing to one side and thence to Joe Dawson – Watcher and friend. The good justice nodded.  
"Mais, oui, Monsieur MacLeod," he affirmed. "You are quite free. And," he continued, glaring at the two young men before him. "A public apology shall be issued for any inconvenience caused you by this most unfortunate misunderstanding."  
"Misunderstanding? Inconvenience?" the Scot sniffed. "Ye call this an inconvenience? My life is in shambles. My reputation is ruined; my business left unattended for nearly the last week or more, my young lover . . ."  
He glanced at Joe for confirmation of this last and the Watcher nodded. "My very young lover," he reiterated warming to his topic, "has run off to who knows where, thinking he was involved with a hardened criminal." How had Methos had convinced them he was the injured party here, anyway? It didn't really matter; the old man had kept his word and gotten him freed and Mac could hardly wait to get back and thank him properly, provided they could find him.  
"All will be restored, monsieur," the Justice replied anxiously. "Any losses you have suffered will be put to rights. These two," he said, waving a hand at his son and his friend, "will do everything possible to restore what you have lost."  
The Scot seemed slightly mollified at that, but still looked to Dawson for support. "Well, that’s something, I suppose," he said at last. "But how d’ye propose to restore Adam? No one even knows where he’s gone."  
Joe Dawson covered his mouth with his hand. It really wasn’t funny, but Methos would die laughing if he were here to see it. Of course, if Methos were here to see it, most of this wouldn’t be happening.  
Robert cleared his throat and looked to his partner. Michel nodded and slipped his hand into his lover’s. "We could take out an ad in the papers, monsieur, or put out a bulletin."  
"Put out a bulletin," the Scot roared. "Take an ad in the papers? Are you mad? He’s frightened enough already."  
Joe laid a hand on his friend’s arm. "Easy, Mac," he said gruffly. "They’re just trying to help." He looked at the young officers. "Mac’s right, though. Puttin’ Adam’s picture on milk cartons at a time like this could be a really bad idea."  
"Milk cartons, monsieur?" The young men looked at one another puzzled.  
Dawson grinned and looked at the Scot. "Yeah, milk cartons. Sometimes, when people get lost, like Adam, other people put their pictures on milk cartons. Sort of like a Wanted Poster for non-criminals."  
"Although, Joe, a wanted poster might work for Adam. We don’t know he’s not wanted somewhere," the Scot said very softly and his friend glared. "We’d rather he didn’t know he was missing, though," the Highlander explained a bit more loudly, then frowned slightly. Somehow that didn’t sound quite right.  
"But monsieur, would not Adam know already he was ‘missing’?" Robert was most genuinely confused now. The Americans made no sense at all; no wonder Adam had left so hurriedly.  
MacLeod shook his head. "No. I think he thinks he’s hiding." He looked back at Joe, then at the two officers. "But I know he’s lost. He’s just as lost without me as I am without him." He stifled a sigh. "At least I hope he is."

"Monsieur MacLeod," Madame stammered, nearly slamming the door on the Scot in her shock. "Madame Amanda! What are you doing here?"  
"Madame de Lancie," Duncan said gently, leaning against the doorjamb of the apartment and gazing at her steadily. "We need to talk – about Adam."  
"Adam is not here, monsieur," she said primly. "He called to say he was leaving and asked me to hold his things until he should send for them." She looked toward Amanda. "He left no word as to where he might go, Madame, truly. It is most disquieting to think of him alone and friendless in the world, but it is his choice and we must respect it, yes?" She sighed. "And Monsieur MacLeod, I have already promised your lovely wife . . ."  
"That’s ex-wife, please," Amanda reminded her.  
"Ex-wife, then, that I would give him your message the moment he called."  
"Message?" Duncan asked, puzzled.  
"About finding the receipts for those swords and such, Mac," Amanda said easily. "I thought since you were tied up, perhaps Adam could handle things with the police once we got that cleared up."  
MacLeod nodded. "Right. Thanks." They both turned their attention back to the woman holding the door. "Please, Madame, may we come in? It really is most urgent."  
She opened the door a trifle wider and stepped aside, glancing a bit uneasily at the pair. The poor, poor man – to have been married to such a flighty child. It was no wonder now he had turned to someone quiet and stable, like Adam. She glanced again at the Scotsman. He truly did look unwell and no wonder after what he had been subjected to. Well, Adam would set that to rights, once they found him. She had no doubt they would find him either. The Scot was obviously a most determined man.  
"Very well, monsieur," she said indicating they should take a seat on the couch. Amanda settled herself into the cushions and Madame sat down beside her. Duncan looked askance at the floral brocade and shook his head.  
"Thanks, Madame, but I’d prefer to stand, if you don’t mind." He smiled gently. "I’ve had about all of sitting I can deal with for a day or two." She raised a brow. "There wasn’t a great deal of room in that cell they stuck me in," he noted sadly. "And so I didn’t have much else to do but sit and wait for Adam to visit – the few times he did." He sighed, but there was no censure in either the deep voice or the dark eyes. Adam had been busy; he knew that. He’d been trying desperately to get him freed without putting his own cover in jeopardy and Mac could appreciate that, too. He just wished the old man had found a little more time to come and see him and let him know how things were going.  
Madame studied him a bit longer – the broad shoulders and long dark hair, the deep-set brown eyes and full mouth, the trim waist and narrow hips – how could the young woman of sought other lovers when she had such a man for a husband? Had it been she, Madame thought, the man would have had a great deal of time to spend with her. She would have made certain of it and she was sure that was why he had opened the gallery – so he and Adam would have more time together.  
"What can I do, Monsieur MacLeod?" Madame asked gently. "I have no idea where the young man is and I do not know when he will see fit to send for the rest of his belongings. He left no forwarding address, no way in which I might contact him."  
The Scot strode forward and knelt beside the couch, taking her plump little hand in his own large brown ones. "You can tell me as soon as he contacts you, Madame," he said urgently, giving her hand a squeeze as a tear slipped down his cheek.  
What an amazing grip the man has! She could feel her hand going numb and wiggled the fingers inside the Scot’s great paws. "Monsieur, if you please?"  
Duncan blushed and released her, fishing around in the pockets of his jacket for a handkerchief. "I’m sorry, Madame," he said with an almost strangled sob. "It’s just that I miss him so much more than I thought I would." She patted the broad shoulder and handed him a tissue. "Thank you," he gasped, dabbing at his eyes. He hiccuped but continued on bravely as Madame patted his shoulder and murmured encouragement while he looked at Amanda who was staring in disbelief. "If you hear anything from him, Madame, anything at all will you just tell him I miss him and want him to come home? Please?" She nodded mutely and the Scot clutched her hand again. "Bless you, Madame," he gushed, raising her hand to his lips, and Amanda’s eyebrows shot higher. "I knew I could count on you."  
Madame de Lancie blushed like a schoolgirl. "Certainment, monsieur. I will be most happy to assist."  
"Mac," Amanda interrupted, plucking at his sleeve. "Remember what we talked about?"  
Madame glanced up sharply. "What did you talk about, Monsieur?"  
Amanda grinned. "What he wants to do with Adam," she said with a sly look at MacLeod.  
Madame’s eyes narrowed. "And what, monsieur, did you wish to do with my young tenant?"  
Mac glared at the Immortal on the couch. "I just want to find him, Madame, get him home and find some way, short of killing him and storing the body in the freezer that is, of making sure he stays there – permanently."  
Madame paled. "You make the joke, yes?" Surely the man could not be serious.  
"Yes, Madame de Lancie," the Highlander soothed. "I’m joking. I just want to keep him around for as long as possible. Is that so hard to understand?"  
"For some of us," Amanda hissed, "it’s downright impossible to understand." Her companions glared. "Well, it is," she insisted. "He’s cynical, sloppy, rude, completely self-centered, cheap. I could go on, but what’s the point? You’re not listening."  
Madame de Lancie stared. They could not be speaking of the same young man, surely. Adam was a model tenant. Never once had the rent been late; never once had there been so much as a whisper of complaint from any of the neighbors. There was not a trace of dust in the entire place when he left. He had been so very pleasant, polite and generous to the older inhabitants of the building, too. A ‘saint’ Madame Carlyle and her husband had called him and that was far from what they called most of the young people in the building. She studied the brooding figure before her.  
"You wish a more permanent liaison, monsieur?" The Highlander’s head jerked up like he’d been scalded and Amanda tittered beside her. "Do you wish a more permanent liaison with mon petit?" He nodded, eyes shifting uneasily from the old woman to the Immortal by her side.  
"Aye," he said slowly. "I do." Damn, that sounded rather final. He shuddered internally. "If I could, I’d like very much for him to be mon petit. You’d have visiting rights, of course," he continued hurriedly and glared again as Amanda hid a grin behind her hand. He knew he was pouring it on too thick and made an effort to stop himself.  
Madame chuckled. "Then why do you not simply ask, monsieur? Adam is obviously very fond of you else he would not keep returning. Surely it should not be so difficult to speak of your feelings to him?"  
The Highlander sighed. "Fond, yes, Madame," he agreed. "But Adam’s terribly skittish about long-term commitments." He sighed again. "He’s had some rather – unfortunate – experiences in the past I think and it’s made him ‘leery’, shall we say, of repetition." He paused and drew a deep breath. "And, I’ll admit I’m not the easiest person in the world to get along with."  
"Oh, Mac," Amanda cut in. "You’re joking! Why sweetheart you’re positively a saint! Look how long you put up with me and my little flings." The look he threw at her would have stopped a freight train in its tracks, but Amanda continued on without pause. "Really, Madame, Mac is the sweetest, most patient, generous, forgiving man in the world!"  
"Amanda!"  
She looked at him blankly. "Well, you are, dearest. And Adam is damn lucky to have you."  
Madame sighed. "What then would you propose, monsieur?  
"Propose?" MacLeod asked blankly. "Do you really think I should?"  
Madame nodded. "Certainment, monsieur. What else can you do? You love him, you say. He very obviously loves you. What is to prevent you from declaring your intent, your passion?"  
MacLeod cleared his throat. "Pardonne, madame, but if I do – declare myself, as you say – what is to prevent him from hopping the next plane to Bora Bora? That is, of course, assuming he hasn’t done so already?  
The old woman frowned. "He is that much afraid, monsieur?" Yes, Adam had seemed nervous at first when it had become obvious from the constant appearance of the roses someone was pursuing him, but she had assumed it was because he did not know who his pursuer was. She had had no idea the very thought of being pursued at all was so disturbing to him. Or, perhaps as MacLeod seemed to indicate, it was not the thought of being pursued but rather the thought of being caught that upset him so.  
Mac nodded. "Afraid so, Madame de Lancie. If I ask him to marry me, there is every indication from his past behavior that he’ll skip town before I can get stamps on the invitations."  
Amanda chuckled. "Well, then, Mac, there’s only one thing to do." The Highlander stared – uncomprehending. "You don’t ask him, silly." She laughed again. "At least not until everything is done."  
MacLeod’s brow furrowed. "Don’t you think that would seem a trifle odd, Amanda? Asking him after we’re married, I mean."  
Madame de Lancie sighed and Amanda groaned. "You do not wait until after the wedding, monsieur," Madame explained. "That would be tres gauche!"  
MacLeod glared at Amanda. "See? I told you!"  
She shook her head. "You just wait until everything’s ready, Mac. Once the invitations are out, the flowers ordered, the caterers arranged, the tuxes fitted . ."  
"Tuxes fitted?" he sputtered. "Are you insane? He’d kill me if I sprang something like this on him, Amanda. Dear God, you’d see pyrotechnics like you wouldn’t believe. Half the night sky of Paris would light up and good-bye Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."  
Madame laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Then, monsieur we shall arrange for you to be as surprised as he. Do not fear, Monsieur Duncan. Leave everything to us."  
Oh, but he was afraid; he was very afraid. And, looking at the lady who had been his sometime lover and long-time friend for nearly 300 years, he figured he had good reason to be. He nodded though as Madame stood, patted his arm once more and pushed him gently out the door.

"You want a what, Mac?" Dawson could not believe his ears.  
"A lawyer, Joe. I need a really good one to draw up an iron-clad contract."  
Joe sighed. "Why not ask Methos, Mac. He’s got a degree. Hell, he’s got several of ‘em and if I remember right, at least one of them is in law."  
"That was ages ago, Joe," Duncan exclaimed. "And I can’t ask him to draw it up. The contract is for the two of us - for me and Methos." Dawson’s chin dropped nearly to his chest. "And," Mac continued stubbornly. "I wouldn’t trust him so far as I could throw him to draw up anything fair and impartial, Joe. He’d put every loophole in the book in any contract he designed and a few that weren’t in the book would probably find their way in as well."  
"Ah, Mac," Joe broke in. "What kind of contract is this, anyway?"  
"A contract for living together, I think. Madame de Lancie suggested it."  
"Madame de Lancie?" Joe said, disbelieving. "She actually suggested you draw up a contract so you two could live together?"  
The Highlander shook his head. "Not exactly, Joe." He frowned a bit and furrowed his brow trying to remember. "Actually, I think she suggested getting married but that can’t be right. Methos would never agree to it."

"Now," Madame gushed excitedly, pacing rapidly about the small flat. "We must find a church where they may be wed."  
"Wed, Madame," Amanda said hesitantly. "Wed - as in ‘married’? You were kidding, weren’t you?"  
The older woman shook her head. Mais non, petite. Why would I ‘kid’ about such a thing? Adam loves his Scot; the Scot wishes to affect a less temporary liaison with Adam. There is nothing else to be done; they must be wed."  
Amanda sighed and hunched lower into the cushions. "Oh, well. Better Adam than . . ."  
She paused, trying to remember the names of some of Mac’s old girlfriends, especially the ones she’d least like to see him tied down – or tied up – with. If there was no help for it, she could put up a brave front. And it was much better if Methos and Mac were together than Mac and say, Kristin or Cassandra. Although, there wasn’t much danger of Mac hooking up with either of them any more, thanks to Methos. She grinned. Yes, much better Adam than any of a score of Mac’s old girlfriends. She could share with Methos. Her mind drifted for just a moment, remembering Methos striding imperially into the midst of her little gathering, the astonished gasps and stares as the ladies of her book-review club feasted their eyes on that gorgeous bod. She shook her head. Why had she never noticed before what was under that drab, dull packaging? Hell, she could not only share with Methos she could share Methos as well.  
"Madame de Lancie, she said eagerly, laying one hand on the other woman’s wrist. "I was just thinking. If this wedding is supposed to be as much as surprise to Mac as to Adam or if it’s supposed to be at least a ‘spur of the moment’ thing, as it were, don’t you think a church might be a little awkward? She grinned mischievously. "I really think holding it on the barge would be a great deal less risky, Madame."  
"Risky, Amanda?" Madame asked with a smile. "Whatever could be the ‘risk’ with a wedding? It is a time of rejoicing, n’est-ce pas? Surely there is no danger that could accompany such an event."  
"Oh, I don’t know," Amanda cooed. "If Adam finds out before Mac actually gets him to the altar, he’s liable to make a mad dash for the nearest exit. The only safe place to hold the wedding is on board the barge." She grinned again. "He’s not too terribly likely to jump overboard to avoid getting married."  
Madame nodded. She was beginning to very much like this oh so devious ex-wife of the MacLeod’s. "Very well," she said, leaning forward slightly. "What do you suggest?"  
Amanda chuckled wickedly, retrieved a pen and pad from the recesses of her bag and patted the cushion next to her. "Have a seat, Madame and let’s talk strategy for a moment."

Duncan hurried past Notre Dame and back to the barge. The police were searching – quietly. Joe even had the Watchers looking for the old man. MacLeod chuckled. Joe had hinted to his pals in the organization that ex-Watcher Pierson hadn’t quite returned all the Chronicles relating to his former project. The various Heads of Departments had gotten busy very quickly and the network was stretched to the limit searching for the missing Dr. Pierson. Madame, too, had promised to notify him the minute Adam called to send for his things. If need be, they would involve Interpol. Surely, even 5000 years of experience in running and hiding could be no match for their combined efforts.  
He plowed up the ramp to the barge, heedless of the warning Buzz pounding at the back of his skull – until he unlocked the door and stepped into the interior of his Parisian abode.  
"Getting a bit careless, aren’t we," hissed a soft baritone in his ear just as his hand went to the katana hidden in the folds of his greatcoat. Methos’ sword was already at his throat and Duncan froze. "Whatever were you thinking of, MacLeod?"  
Mac grinned foolishly. "You."  
"Right," the old man growled, dropping the point of the sword to the floor. "And that sort of thinking will get you killed. You keep your mind on survival, MacLeod. Have you learned nothing in the last four-hundred years?" He stepped away from the Scot and sauntered back toward the couch.  
"I thought you’d left town."  
"Methos grinned and flopped onto the leather sofa. "Yeah, well I figured you owed me for the flight I missed last time I was here. Besides, Katmandu sucks this time of year." He picked up the beer he’d left on the end table and took a long swallow. MacLeod gulped, too, as he watched the liquid slide down the long, pale column of throat and Methos chuckled. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he intoned in a perfect imitation of the first time they’d met. "Have a beer." He tossed a can toward the Highlander who reached for it much as he had back then. Unfortunately, the can being tossed was the half-empty one Methos had been drinking from and MacLeod was soon splattered with the foamy brew. "Ooops. Sorry, Mac." Methos sprang to his feet and sprinted for a towel. "Here," he said, quickly wiping the Scot down much as he would a horse who’d been ridden too hard. "There, all better."  
"It’s o.k., Methos," Duncan said gently, taking the towel from his lover’s hands. "I’ll just take a quick shower and be right back." He started toward the bath, then turned back to the Immortal still standing in the middle of the living area floor. "Did you mean what you said, Methos? About me owing you for the flight, I mean. Is that and the weather the only reasons you’re here and not on your way to Katmandu or Bora Bora?" The Scot could hardly keep the disappointment from his voice or his face and he turned his head quickly away. Damn, maybe he was a fool to hope, but he had so wanted Methos to want to stay. He’d wanted it so badly in fact, the whole idea of a wedding had started to sound pretty good over the last few days. In fact, he’d almost started drawing up a guest list – better leave that until the trap had actually been sprung or at least properly set and baited, though.  
The older man shook his head. "Not exactly, Mac. I dropped by to make sure you were all right before I left."  
"Left?" Mac exclaimed in disbelief. "You're leaving? Why?"  
"There’s not really much reason for me to stay now is there?" The green eyes narrowed slightly. "And if you thought I’d left town, who the hell did you expect to see waiting for you when you walked in the door?" He stalked over to the couch and dropped back onto the cushions, glaring at his friend. "Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with somebody new already, Mac. The body’s not even cold yet and you’ve got somebody else living here? Who is it, MacLeod - Amanda? Or has Richie come back to stay for a while?"  
The Scot shook his head. "Neither. I’m sorry, Methos, I actually didn’t notice anybody here at all until I walked in the door. Guess I wasn’t paying attention." He really needed that shower.  
The old man frowned. "Not paying attention? What are you, suicidal? How have you lived so long?"  
Mac shrugged. "No idea, Methos. Maybe I need somebody around to watch out for me, you think? I mean, you did say once that I was too important to lose. Have you changed your mind?"  
Methos shook his head sadly. "And here I thought you were such a Boy Scout." He glanced up at the Scot and grinned. "You’d better go get that shower, Mac. The room’s starting to smell like a brewery – not that I’d mind, you understand, but could you live with it?"  
"Mind telling me where you’ve been?"  
Methos shrugged. "Here and there. Mostly there." He grinned. "I stayed with Amanda for a few days and with Joe for a bit before that. The last several days, though, I’ve spent in my old digs near the universite."  
"That place where I first found you?" MacLeod sputtered and Methos nodded, grinning some more.  
"Figured that would be the last place any of you lot came looking," he said smugly. "Looks like I was right."  
Duncan sighed. "So, how long are you staying this time, Methos?"  
Methos shrugged again and cocked his head to the side. "Not sure, Mac." He stared at his friend. "You seem awfully sure that I am though, or do you just want me gone already?"  
It was Mac’s turn to shrug. "I don't want you to go at all, Methos. I was hoping you'd stay. Why are you here, really?"  
The old man sighed. "Like I said, Mac. I wanted to make sure you were o.k. Or maybe it’s just your magnetic personality. I couldn’t stay away." He stood up and angled over to the sleeping area, then looked back at the Scot. "Go take your shower, Mac. I'll have my stuff out of your way before you know it."  
"I don't want it or you out-of-my-way, Methos," the Highlander protested planting himself firmly in front of his friend. "I want you to stay - forever if possible, but barring that, as long as you feel comfortable." He rested his hands on the other's shoulders. "Can we at least talk, Methos?"  
Methos frowned. "Talk about what, MacLeod?"  
"Us, " the Highlander replied. "I thought we'd talk about us. If you want to, that is."  
The old man nodded. "Fine," he muttered. "We can talk. Go get your shower and I'll get another beer."  
"I love you, Methos."  
"Sure, Mac. Today you say that, but what about tomorrow or the day after that?"  
"I’ll love you forever," Mac said grinning. "Wait for me. We’ll talk when I’m done in the shower."  
Methos slouched back to the sofa. "Very well, MacLeod. I’ll wait." He waited until Mac’s back was turned to mumble under his breath, "But not for long."

MacLeod slipped out of the shower and peered nervously around the living space. There was no sign of Methos. He'd suspected there wouldn't be halfway through his shower when the old guy's Buzz disappeared. Methos' greatcoat was gone, his pack was gone; his computer was . . .  
Gone.  
Everything was gone. The son-of-a-bitch was running again.  
Ever since Bordeaux, it seemed he and Methos had been dancing circles around one another, testing each other in an elaborate ritual designed to determine if they had anything of their friendship left to salvage, trying to find some common ground on which to meet and regroup. And, just when it seemed they had, Methos would panic and take off. Or, Mac would make some unwarranted and wholly fallacious judgment call and Methos would take off. And now, he was doing it again!  
Well, he was not going to get away with it. Mac wouldn't let him. No matter how far or how fast he ran, Mac would find him and drag him back - by the hair if he must. Although, Methos' hair really needed to grow out some before it would be suitable as a 'handle' for ancient Immortals. You can run, Methos, but you can't hide, the Highlander thought grimly. You are too important to lose; our friendship is too important to lose.  
Mac toweled off and pulled on a pair of sweats. Odds were good Methos might still be at his apartment, packing up his possessions prior to hopping a train, boat or plane for whatever destination he had in mind. Odds were also good, if Mac hurried, he might be able to catch him before he managed to finish packing; and, if not, perhaps Madame de Lancie could be cajoled into providing the information needed for the Highlander to track him down.  
In any case, it was time to put an end to the pussyfooting around. Something was going to be settled between them for good and all and MacLeod just hoped it wouldn't cost either of them his head.  
He froze suddenly. If Methos were this nervous just at the mention of discussing their relationship, what might he do if Mac actually mentioned living together? Good Lord! What would he do if the Scot brought up the subject of marriage? Losing his head might be the best the Highlander could hope for. Better call Madame and tell her to stop making wedding plans.  
This was never going to work. He would much rather keep Methos as a friend than try pushing the Old Guy into a relationship he wasn't ready for and risk losing him entirely. He'd pushed too hard and too far already and it was a miracle Methos was still around to harass him about it.  
He slouched into the kitchen and poured himself a drink, then picked up the phone and called Madame de Lancie. Then, he had another drink and called Joe. Then he sat down and had a good cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimers apply. The boys still aren’t mine and hope is fading fast. They belong to the folks at Rysher and Mr. Panzer and Mr. Davis, for a while at least. We’ll see what happens at the end of the season. If they become free agents, I’m putting in a bid. For now, I’m merely borrowing them and will return them unharmed when I’m through. Sorry, guys, there is still no explicit sex to be found - just some very mild m/m implications and a little angst. Actually, folks, there is no sex at all in this one. I promise I will get it right eventually, though.  
> Many thanks are offered up on the altar of proper English grammar and coherency to my one remaining beta, Olympia. I’ve either bored or scared the rest of them off. Without her this story would make even less sense than it does.


End file.
